my fingertips, and my lips, they burn from the cigarettes
by itsascreambaby
Summary: Moritz's favorite part of summer was at night, when the two of them would sit on Melchi's back porch and roll their own cigarettes. Melchior always rolled his for him, not because Moritz wasn't capable but because that's just how it'd always been.


Summer was hot and thick around them.

Melchior loved it, walking around with his shirt off and the latest book to pique his interest, sitting in the tops of trees and looking down on the world below.

Moritz hated it. The heat covered his skin in sweat and left him feeling like he was suffocating. He was far less confident than Melchior, too insecure to take his shirt off. So instead, he just suffered. He would sit at the bottom of the trees, staring up at Melchi who was so smug in the sky. They would yell to each other back and forth, Melchior talking about something Moritz wouldn't even begin to want to understand, and Moritz begging Melchi to come down so they can go inside with air conditioning.

It's been like this since they were kids, growing up in the same cul de sac, spending every summer running around their neighborhood. The older they got the more disdain Moritz had for their small corner of suburbia. Melchi looked at it like it was some experiment, commenting on how these poor people lived their life. Going on for hours about how they were just a product of the system, doing what they were told.

Moritz agreed to an extent, but mostly he just nodded along and let Melchior talk. Besides, he liked watching him get all animated. It was like a slow build, gradually getting more and more into his own speech as he went. Moritz always watched with the hint of a smile.

Although by far, Moritz's favorite part of summer was at night, when the two of them would sit on Melchi's back porch and roll their own cigarettes. Melchior always rolled his for him, not because Moritz wasn't capable but because that's just how it'd always been. And Moritz rather liked it, the way Melchiors fingers worked so delicately, how his tongue swiped out to gently wet the paper. He liked the small look of satisfaction that usually adorned Melchi's face - there was a brief moment where he always admired his work. Moritz noticed it all.

That's the thing about having so much anxiety you can't sleep at night. You notice things. Everything, really. You watch and listen and observe. And Melchi was his favorite subject.

Moritz could tell you - in great detail - how Melchior enjoyed his coffee. He could tell you the range of facial expressions he made when conjugating Greek ( a language in which Moritz would never understand actually desiring to study ). For the most part he knew almost everything about Melchi.

He liked their nights spent on Melchior's back porch for other reasons, too. It was quiet, but not an awkward quiet. It was like blissful silence. It was one of the only brief moments where Melchior had nothing to say. They just sat there, close together, cigarettes between their lips and staring up at the night sky.

Tonight there are more stars than usual, and both of them let out the smallest of sighs. There was something to be said for sharing this moment of pure beauty.

Even though he feels like he's not supposed to, like it's against the rules, Moritz steals a glance at Melchi. The look on his face is one of bliss. There's a faint smile on his lips, eyes wide with awe.

For Moritz, this is more beautiful than the stars ever could be.

He opens his mouth to say something, but promptly closes it again. After another moment of deliberation he tries again, "I-" A pause. Melchi looks over, eyebrow raised, and Moritz's gaze snaps up to the sky. "It's- It's so beautiful, it looks so beautiful." You. You're so beautiful. "I feel like if I could only get close enough, I'd fall in."

Now Melchior is looking at him, really looking at him. His attention no longer divided between his face and the sky. Moritz can feel his gaze on him as well, it makes his skin hot and his throat dry.

"Moritz Stiefel, I think there's a poet inside you yet."

He can feel himself blush, the blood rushing to his cheeks and giving them a nice red tone. In lieu of reply he ashes his cigarette and takes another drag, trying to look anywhere else but at Melchi's face. He knows if he looks at him he'll give it away, his feelings, buried deep in his chest.

When did it begin? Moritz himself didn't really know the answer. Maybe when they were younger than they are now, when Melchior used to stick up for him in the schoolyard. Moritz was never really popular, in fact, until Melchi came along no one really spoke to him at all. He was quiet and when he did talk it was almost spastic, speaking in nervous staccato bursts. The other boys made fun of him, but one day Melchior stepped in - putting himself in the way of harm instead.

Maybe it was then that he really fell in love. Or maybe it was later, when Melchior started to actually talk to him. Even though Moritz didn't really talk back, he just listened. And Melchi didn't treat him like he was anything but an equal.

If he really thought about it, that was the first time in his life Moritz ever experienced true kindness. Or maybe it was just basic human decency?

Whatever the case, when he looked at Melchior he saw the stars in his eyes. When he looked at Melchior he saw his beginning, middle, and end. When he looked at Melchior he felt like - like time could stop and he wouldn't even notice.


End file.
